


Flora

by h0ldthiscat



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, post ep for 4x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8688535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0ldthiscat/pseuds/h0ldthiscat
Summary: This isn’t her fault, Bridget knows this, can intellectualize it. But she can’t deny that she’s at least partially responsible, and that’s what she repeats to herself over and over as she climbs out of her car, the gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers.





	

Franky is well-acquainted with disappointment; in less than thirty years she can't count the number of times she's seen it on the faces of people she loved, heard it in their voices, felt it in their touch. The way their eyes sort of glaze over and their tone becomes flat. She has disappointed more people than she can count, including herself. 

But now that she's on the outside, all that's changed. She brings people hope, sees it in their eyes every day with phrases like "charges dropped" or "loophole." With every person she helps, she feels a little bit of that doubt recede, feels little pieces of herself start to come back--or maybe come to her for the first time. 

But as she looks at her phone, the cold metal of the gun pressed against the small of her back, she knows she's about to remember disappointment very vividly. Her heart in her throat, Franky very nearly dials Will Jackson. He’d kept Bea’s secrets, hadn’t he? Helped her when he certainly wasn’t getting anything out of it. He’s a good man, one of the few she knows. 

But Will doesn’t deserve to be brought into this. Neither does Bridget, but hiding this from her would definitely be worse. Franky dials Bridget and, for the first time, prays, "Don't pick up, don't pick up..." 

Bridget answers on the fourth ring, sounding far away. "Hey."

"Hey, can I, um.” Franky’s voice catches in her throat. “Where are you right now?"

"I had a meeting downtown, I'm headed back to the prison shortly."

"Can you--" Franky pushes through her fear. "Can you meet me? I need to-- I need you."

"Baby, what's wrong?" Bridget asks. 

Franky swallows, her words tight in her throat. "I'm okay, I'm fine, I just need you for a sec." 

"Okay, where are you?" 

Franky peers around the corner of the alley and gives her the address of the business on the corner, a pawn shop with an array of hubcaps littered across the sidewalk. 

"Alright, I'll leave soon."

Franky breathes for what feels like the first time in minutes. "Thanks Gidge."

She hangs up, still freezing cold even though the sun is starting to peek out from behind the clouds. The gun has made her whole body cold, a chill running from neck to sacrum. Her jacket is bulky enough to hide the weapon but she feels like there's a sign hanging over her head announcing it to the world. She wipes her eyes and heads into the pawn shop. There is a musty smell inside, the odor of castoff things. She remembers what prison smells like and tastes bile in her throat. 

It comes as quite a shock to her that she’s never been held at gunpoint before. She’d had mates who’d experienced it. She’d seen it, sure, but she’d never been the one staring down the barrel, a few short inches between her and certain death. Franky wipes a drop of sweat from her temple. 

“Can I help you?” grunts the man behind the glass counter. 

Franky jumps. “Just looking, thanks.”

His white ribbed shirt, not unlike the one she used to wear, is stretched and stained. She begins to suspect the musty smell in the shop might be coming from him. 

“You look familiar.”

She fakes a smile and points at her dimples. “Familiar face, I guess. Get that a lot.”

“No, I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Franky snaps. In her pocket, her phone buzzes. “Where are you?” she asks into the speaker.

“Outside.”

She hangs up, the shop owner grumbling wordlessly behind her. Bridget is waiting outside, her car running. Franky hasn’t even closed the door before she shouts, “Just go!”

She shuts her eyes and leans back against the headrest, fighting a wave of nausea. Bridget’s brow is furrowed, hard. 

“Thank you,” Franky says, catching her breath. 

“You going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Bridget asks, knuckles white on the wheel. 

Franky swallows. “Jianna’s kid, the one I told you about?”

“Shayne?”

“I’ve been working on his case.”

Bridget’s mouth is a thin, hard line. The disappointment. Franky knows it well. The blonde says, “That’s a violation of your--”

“I know.”

“If someone did even a little digging they’d find out who he is and why you might be interested in him.”

“I know, Gidge.”

“Why were you interested in him? Did you seek him out?”

“No! Well, sort of.” Franky takes a breath. “Bea told me to find out about him. He’s been coming to visit Ferguson inside, and Bea wanted me to find out why.”

“You’re not inside anymore, Franky. Bea Smith is not your top dog. You don’t take orders from her.”

“Fuck you, don’t you think I fucking know that? You were the one who wanted me to go see her in the first place!”

Bridget loosens and tightens her grip on the wheel. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

"Yeah, no shit, Gidget.”

“What does all of this have to do with today?” Bridget asks after a moment, her voice clipped.

Franky wets her lips. “He pulled a gun on me.”

The blonde’s eyes widen. “Jesus Christ. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Where is he now?” 

“He ran off, I--I told him to run, he ran off. I didn’t want him--” She takes in a breath that feelslike a sob, but she is determined not to cry. “I didn’t want him to end up like me.”

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” Bridget says quietly, and she reaches across the console and takes her hand, fingers playing over the rings on her second and third fingers. 

“I have his gun,” Franky whispers, and Bridget’s hand tightens around hers. 

“Okay,” Bridget says slowly. 

“I didn’t want to leave it just laying out for anyone to find. I don’t know if it has a serial number, who it’s registered to. His prints were all over it, mine too.”

“I know I don’t have to tell you this, but your possession of it is a serious violation of your parole.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” Franky hears the fear in her voice and hates it. 

After a moment, Bridget says, “You did the right thing.”

“I need to get rid of it,” Franky whispers. 

It is quiet for a moment, and then Bridget says, “I’ll take care of it.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to, I’m volunteering.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Franky insists.

“And I can’t let you throw away the life you fought so hard to earn,” Bridget snaps. 

Franky settles back into her seat, squeezing her eyes shut. Against her will, a few tears come spilling out. She curses and wipes them away. 

“I’m not this,” she insists, unable to look at Bridget. “I’m not this fucking mess you’re going to have to clean up after.”

“I know you’re not,” Bridget says quietly. 

Franky’s not sure if she believes her. 

They arrive at Bridget’s house ten minutes later and sit in the driveway, not speaking. Franky sniffs, the leather of the seat squeaking beneath her as she shifts uncomfortably. 

“What will you do with it?” she asks after a while. 

“I don’t know,” Bridget answers. She hasn’t loosened her grip on the wheel. Her thumb runs over the worn spot at the top, and Franky thinks of Bridget’s thumb across her cheek, solid and whole and comforting. 

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Bridget says finally. “That way if anything--happens, you can answer honestly.”

Franky nods, pressing her lips together to keep from crying. “I can call a cab to my place, or to--”

“You can stay,” Bridget says quickly. “You should stay. In case something happens.” 

“You’re sure it’s okay? The bed-sit isn’t far, I can--”

“I want you to stay.”

Franky watches the psychologist's hands on the steering wheel, her neatly-trimmed nails with their taupe polish. Franky reaches out and takes one, cups it between her own hands, riddled with rings and old kitchen scars that will never go away. 

“I owe you my life, Gidge,” she whispers, her lips on Bridget’s fingertips. 

The blonde shakes her head. “Everything you did, you did yourself.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. You saved me and I fucking love you, okay? I’m gonna prove to you that I’m worthy of the love I can give you.”

Bridget’s eyes shine with tears, bluer than anything Franky’s ever seen in her life. “You are so worthy.” She reaches out and cups the brunette’s cheek with her other hand. “I’ll take care of this, and I’ll be back tonight, okay?” 

Franky nods. “Okay.” She leans across the console and kisses Bridget, marveling as always at how warm and soft and real she is, how like perfection. 

“Get in there and make yourself at home,” Bridget whispers, wiping her eyes. 

“But whatever shall I wear?” Franky teases. “All of my clothes are at my place.”

“You’ll figure something out,” the blonde answers. “You always do.”

X

Bridget pulls up to the lake, her ears ringing. Above her, the yellow-orange light of the parking lot flickers on as dusk finally falls. She’d come here several times as a kid, worn paths through the tall grass to dirt chasing after her older brother. It’s taller now, and waves in the breeze, whispering and rattling together. _Can it keep a secret?_ , Bridget wonders.

Her car is the only one there, as far as she can tell. It’s not warm enough yet for the summer crowd. Months ago, curled against Franky in bed one morning, she’d told her of the lake and how she wanted to take her there win summer. Franky had giggled and threatened to pants her, arms snaking around her waist. Bridget will have to find somewhere else now. 

She reaches across the car to grab the gun from the glovebox and avoids her own gaze in the rearview mirror. It’s heavy, heavier than she expected it would be. She’d held her dad’s gun once, when she was young, but things have become sleeker since then, she supposes. She tries to picture that fifteen-year-old boy holding it, pointing it at Franky. It makes her stomach turn. 

She never should have asked Franky to come visit Bea at Wentworth. She knows it’s a dangerous rabbit hole to go down but she can’t help herself. If she hadn’t made the request for a visit, Bea never would have asked Franky to find out about Shayne. And Franky, in her ever well-meaning nature, wouldn’t have gotten attached to the kid. 

This isn’t her fault, Bridget knows this, can intellectualize it. But she can’t deny that she’s at least partially responsible, and that’s what she repeats to herself over and over as she climbs out of her car, the gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers. 

The sandy soil crunches under her feet as she makes her way to the water, scanning the ground for a small rock. Bridget finds one near the dock, misshapen and clay-colored. Looking over her shoulder, she picks the rock up and squats down, facing away from the car park. She pulls the gun from behind her, fingers moving quickly over the serial number along the short barrell of the weapon. The rock makes a dull sound when it contacts the metal, its edges not quite sharp enough at first to catch on the etched numbers. After a few tries she gets it right, and begins rubbing away, squinting in the dusk. 

Bridget’s breathing slows to a steady pant as the numbers begin to disintegrate and blur into one another, leaving scratched metal behind. It’s working, it’s actually working, she thinks, and then her mind jumps to the next step. She’ll have to get rid of the DNA, hers and Franky’s--and Shayne’s, she supposes. Even at the bottom of a lake, things have a way of being found. It’s happened before.

The last of the digits rub off and Bridget drops the rock, rather proud of herself. She returns the gun to its hidden place, and begins the walk back up to the car park. Surely there’s something in her car she can use as a mild corrosive. She pops the boot and shifts things around: a cable set, a half box of reference books that don’t fit in her office, a first aid kit--

Bridget’s heart thuds in her chest as she opens it, praying for anything that could--rubbing alcohol! A tiny three ounce bottle at the bottom of the kit. It’ll have to do, she supposes. She closes the boot and pockets the bottle and a few cotton balls, heading down to the water a second time. At the water’s edge, she douses a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol and rubs it sloppily over the gun, taking special care to get the handle. She repeats it two or three more times, until the little bottle is dry and she’s holding the gun precariously between her thumb and forefinger. With one more glance over her shoulder, Bridget flings the gun into the lake, an underhand toss that sends it about ten meters out. It lands in the water with a surprisingly miniscule plop. 

She feels something loosen in her chest, free and open like the first week after she’d quit smoking. Ironically, all she wants right now is a cigarette. Bridget puts the empty bottle of rubbing alcohol in her back pocket and returns to the car park, legs swishing against the tall grass that seems to whisper, _child, you are a woman now._

X

The house is quiet when she gets home, still and warm. The hood light above the stove is on, and a pot sits cooling on a burner. Bridget leaves her keys on the counter and steals down the hallway to the bedroom, rapping twice with her knuckles before entering. She’d learned the hard way that Franky doesn’t like surprises. 

“Come in,” the brunette’s voice calls. 

No lights are on in the bedroom, but the yellow-orange glow from the bathroom spills in, illuminating Franky’s slim silhouette. She is completely naked, fishing through the dresser drawer. Her hair is damp and her face is fresh, save for a smear of eyeliner left under her eye. 

“Hi baby,” Bridget says quietly. She can tell Franky’s been crying. The tip of her nose is red, raw, and her eyes are bloodshot. Bridget feels something shifting inside her, something elemental and fierce, something that wants to bend and break the world to her will, to hurt anyone and everything that hurt Franky this way. 

“Is it done?” Franky asks. 

Bridget nods. She sets her purse down on the armchair in the corner and slides out of her shoes, taking her eyeline below Franky’s. The brunette goes back to flipping through the top drawer, shifting her weight back and forth. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Bridget says quietly, placing a hand at Franky’s waist and resting her head on her shoulder.

“I’m mad at me,” Franky sighs. 

“Don’t be.”

Franky turns to her, completely bare. She doesn’t like to be naked, Bridget has noticed. She’s always got something on, a bra or some undies, a big t-shirt. She’s rarely ever totally exposed, all tats and scars and skin. Bridget feels terribly overdressed. 

She closes the space between them, placing one hand at Franky’s hip and cradling her head with the other. Their lips touch, and Bridget is made instantly aware of how dry hers are. Franky doesn’t seem to mind; her hands work around the blonde’s waist, pulling her closer. Bridget has never known intimacy like she has with Franky. It is completely consumptive, a fire that burns low in her belly and spreads to her limbs the second their bodies touch. 

She walks Franky over to the bed, cupping her face in her hands, and lays her down. It is dark in the bedroom, but there is enough light shining in from the bathroom that she can see the branch of cherry blossoms snake its way up the brunette’s ribs, doing its best to hide the scars she doesn’t talk about. 

“You’re beautiful,” Bridget says. She slides her hands up Franky’s sides, imprinting the shape of her into her memory. She palms one breast, takes a darkened nipple in between her fingers. Franky hisses, breathing tightly. Bridget kisses along Franky’s thighs, opening her legs and kissing towards her center. When she finally reaches the apex of her thighs, Franky’s eyes slide shut and she grabs a fistful of the duvet. Normally she’s a very vocal partner, giving encouragements and instructions throughout, but tonight she is silent, save for her sharp inhales and occasional gasps. 

Bridget moves her hands underneath Franky, cupping her ass and squeezing, pulling herself closer into her center. She can’t help but notice how natural this feels, how intuitive. Earlier in her life, when she’d been with men, something had always been missing. That intimacy, that connection. Knowing when and where to touch her partner and how. The first time her hands hand flown like magnets to a woman’s waist, holding her close, everything had clicked into place, the world was suddenly in focus. 

Bridget hooks her arms over Franky’s thighs and uses her elbows to push the brunette’s pelvis off the bed, her mouth still working between her legs, the flat of her tongue licking mercilessly over Franky’s clit. 

“Gidge, I’m gonna--” Franky’s head turns sharply to the left and her eyes widen, then screw shut as her legs begin to shake. 

Bridget gives her an “Mhm,” of affirmation with her tongue still on her clit. 

Franky moans, “Fuck!” and lets out a gasp of disbelief, and then her hips fall back down to the bed. Bridget raises her head, smiling, and wipes her lips on Franky’s thigh. 

“No, don’t. I like it,” Franky murmurs, and pulls Bridget’s mouth to hers for a sharp kiss. Bridget’s lips are still covered in the taste of her, warm and slightly salty. Franky makes quick work of Bridget’s jacket, and unbuttons her blouse, tossing both to the floor. She is still more quiet than usual, but has her normal incredible focus, easily removing Bridget’s bra in one fluid motion. 

Franky pulls her partner down onto the bed and dips her head to her breasts, swirling her tongue around one nipple and then taking it into her mouth. Bridget cries out, clutching at the phoenix on Franky’s bicep. She remembers when the brunette had come home with the idea a few months after getting out, excited to show her the sketch a mate of hers had drawn up. 

“I walked through fire,” she said, that impish twinkle in her eyes, “and was reborn. I’m a fucking phoenix.”

Franky’s hands are at Bridget’s hips, fiddling with the hooks on her trousers. Once off, they join her jacket and blouse on the floor, buttons and zippers clacking against the hardwood. Franky teases her now, running a finger along the seams of her underwear. 

“Please,” Bridget hears herself whimper. She’d never been a beggar before Franky. “Want you inside of me.”

Franky acquiesces, simply pushing Bridget’s underwear to the side and sliding a finger inside of her. Bridget groans and moves her hips, wanting more. After a moment, Franky squeezes the blonde’s hip and rolls her over, pulling her undies down to her knees. Bridget climbs up on all fours but Franky’s gentle hand at the small of her back guides her back down onto the bed. 

Lifting the blonde’s pelvis ever so slightly, she slides two fingers inside her from behind. Bridget claws at the duvet, the feeling simultaneously too intense and not enough.

“Oh god,” Bridget whispers, looking over her shoulder. Franky is focused, her eyes fixed on her work and her mouth a thin, straight line with a smile in the corner. She is intoxicating to watch, completely vulnerable and exposed but also powerful and completely in control. 

“Don’t stop,” Bridget moans, and suddenly Franky’s arm is wrapped around her waist, pulling her up onto her knees. While one hand still works inside her, the other closes over her breast, pulling at her nipple until she is writhing and ready for release. Franky’s fingers reach up just a little further, finding depths Bridget didn’t know she had inside her, and then she shatters, body shaking uncontrollably while Franky hums low in her ear. 

Bridget lays back down, her limbs like jelly, and Franky lays beside her, curling into her side. 

“You’ve got to forgive yourself,” Bridget says, wanting a cigarette for the second time today.

“When am I gonna feel like I’m out from under this?” Franky asks, her voice impossibly small. “Like I’m ever actually free?” 

A gust of wind picks up outside and a stalk of bamboo raps against the window. _Tap tap tap._ Bridget is reminded of Wentworth at night, the cell blocks clinking closed and the calls of, “Lights out, ladies!”

“I don’t know,” she says. A shiver runs through her and she kisses Franky on the head, then shuffles to the bathroom to clean up. When she washes her hands, she notices that the nail polish on her right thumb and pointer finger is almost completely gone. Quickly, she grabs the bottle of acetone from under the sink and begins to take the rest off. It stings her cuticle where she got a hangnail last week and her lip curls at the smell, but she keeps rubbing until her nails are clean.


End file.
